


The Intermittent Kissing Solution

by k8andrewz, Kate Andrews (k8andrewz)



Category: The Middleman (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-28
Updated: 2008-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-31 13:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8andrewz/pseuds/k8andrewz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8andrewz/pseuds/Kate%20Andrews
Summary: He'll just get all weird about it; he's that kind of guy, as far as she can tell.





	The Intermittent Kissing Solution

**Author's Note:**

> (Original author notes) Okay, look. There have been exactly 2 eps aired of this show and I don't begin to pretend that I have the firmest grasp yet on either the characters or their voices, so I'll admit up front that this is a moderately OOC piece of kink indulgence that is likely to be completely jossed in upcoming eps. But, if this reading this interests you at all, chances are that you'll agree with me that "kink indulgence" is the most important phrase in the preceding sentence. Right? Right.

AFTER:

She figures it's better if she doesn't tell him. He'll just get all weird about it; he's that kind of guy, as far as she can tell. Ida agrees. Ida supplies a believable cover story and for two whole days, it works. But the problem is, he's too smart.

He's that kind of guy: too smart. 

 

BEFORE: 

"Get out," he begs her from the floor. 

"Tell me what's wrong," she says, kneeling beside him. "Tell me what I need to do." 

"Just," he seizes again, clutches at his head, "Please, I can't-- shoot me. Shoot me." He grabs for his thigh holster. 

She manages to get his gun first and toss it out of reach. "Nobody's shooting anybody. Just talk to me." 

Oh God. If she doesn't get out in the next twenty seconds, "Run," he gets out. "Please, run." 

"I'm not leaving you. Don't be stupid. You're hurt." 

"Please. Please." He feels the last of his control slip. He feels her cool hand on his forehead. He manages to look her in the eye and say, "I'm sorry," just before it hits him.

 

AFTER: 

His first clue was probably Ida's unusual lack of attitude toward her on the day after, but he didn't pay it much mind. He thought that perhaps Ida was finally taking a liking to her. He's certainly taken a liking to her, something that - for a variety of reasons - he tries not to think too long or hard about. 

 

DIRECTLY AFTER:

She takes a long shower. She doesn't expect Lacey home, but Lacey's meeting got out early and she's there when Wendy steps out in nothing but a towel.

"What the [BLEEP] happened to you?" Lacey asks, her doe eyes going wider.

"Nothing," Wendy says. 

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"Well it is."

"That's not--is that a hand print?"

 

WAY BEFORE:

Wendy's boyfriend was the organic, scented candles and scattered rose petals and perfect mood music type. He "made love." She always enjoyed sex with him. He was attentive, respectful and very, very patient. He always was gentle with her, almost to a fault.

 

IMMEDIATELY AFTER:

When whatever the [BLEEP] it is finally passes, he passes out cold. He's heavier than he looks (and he looks pretty heavy). However, Wendy is stronger than she looks, and with considerable effort, she drags him out to the car, hauls him into the back seat and drives him to headquarters. 

"What happened?" Ida demands, like this is Wendy's fault.

"Don't you [BLEEP] start with me," Wendy snaps. 

"Testy." Ida tosses him over her shoulder like he's made of Styrofoam. 

"The bad guy shot him with some sort of ray gun. Will he be okay?"

"Could you be a little more vague, possibly? Come on, newbie, you know the drill. Size and shape of the gun, color of ray, and most important, the immediate effects?"

"He," Wendy pushes her hair back and stares at his limp form. "He just passed out."

"You really need to get better at lying," Ida says. Then, Ida scans him, blue slicing through him, then through Wendy.

"Hey," Wendy hollers, "Flipper baby. Seriously."

Ida's eyes flip back to normal. "Oh," she says quietly.

"Oh *what*?"

"He'll be fine," Ida says. Then she looks at Wendy. "How are you, kiddo?"

"Nothing a shower and a good night's sleep won't fix."

"Do you need--"

"Nope. I don't. I'm fine. I’m set."

Ida smoothes down his hair.

"Is he..." Wendy isn't sure what she wants to ask.

"He's not going to remember."

"Oh! Really? Oh, good. That's good."

"What would you like me to tell him?"

"I get a choice?"

Ida looks...sympathetic, which pisses Wendy off. Then, Ida says, "I could make you forget too."

"Whoa there. No. Not Kosher."

"Calm down. I said could." She scrutinizes Wendy. "So, you want to tell him or not?"

"Not, I guess. I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think that decision is above my paygrade." 

Wendy looks at him and all she can think of is the horror on his face right before he went under. "Not," she says. "Look just--take care of him. I've got to--just let me know what you tell him so I can get my story straight. I gotta get home."

"Sure thing."

"And stop looking at me like that."

Ida turns back to him and says, "Do you want a change of clothes, Miss Watson?"

"No," Wendy says. "Well, I could use a new uniform, for tomorrow. At least a new shirt." Most of the buttons on the one she's wearing are back at the warehouse, scattered across the concrete floor.

 

ONE DAY AFTER:

"The thing you need to understand, Dubbie, is that--"

"Could you not? Seriously. Just for today, could you dial lecture mode down to, like off?"

"I was only--" He looks at her. Turns in his seat to face her with this look of earnest concern. "What's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. My head just..."

"Ah, yes. The after effects of the paralysis ray. I too have been feeling it." He rubs his forehead. "Like a hangover."

"You don't drink."

"That doesn't mean that I never have. You and I were lucky," he continues. "Incapacitated as we were, we were completely at his mercy. We were darn lucky he left us unscathed."

"We sure were." She picks up the binoculars and watches the side of the office building, intently.

A couple minutes later, he says, "Are you sure you're all right, Dubbie?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You just seem--"

"Seem what?"

"I'm not sure."

"I told you, I’m fine."

 

TWO DAYS AFTER: 

She's in sweatpants and a tank top and the only thing she's got on her mind is coffee when she opens her front door. It's 5:45 A.M. and she couldn't remember her dream, but she couldn't get back to sleep. 

She opens her door to find him sitting against the wall opposite her front door. He's out of uniform. She's never seen him *this* out of uniform when they weren't undercover. He looks like a frat boy. Like an alumnus at a frat party. He's wearing a well-worn pair of jeans, a wrinkled blue plaid shirt over a snug white T and he looks... oh, man. He knows. He's got his hands folded, resting in his lap, long legs stretched out, crisp, new, modern running shoes on his feet. He doesn't look up from his hands when he says in almost a whisper, "Would it be all right with you if we talked?"

"Oh [BLEEP]," she says. "Ida said she wouldn't tell you."

He finally looks up at her and looks so painfully guilty that she wants to smack him. Hard. Or hug him.

But she feels too brittle for either, so instead, she shuts her door and heads to the elevator. "You coming or what?"

 

ONE AND SEVEN-EIGHTHS DAYS AFTER:

He wants to do something violent to Ida, but there's no point in that. He wants to do something more than violent to the bad guy they're after, and eventually, he most likely will. He asks Ida, "Does she remember?"

"Yep."

He rubs at his scraped up knuckles. 

"She's a tough kid. She rolls with the punches. Speaking of which, if you're going to put any more holes in the wall, would you mind--"

"Ida?"

"Yes?"

"Don't."

"Got it."

 

TWO DAYS AFTER:

They get breakfast at an all night diner. It's not until after he's had two glasses of milk (and her, three cups of coffee) that he asks, "Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine."

"Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine. See, this is why I told her not to tell you."

He looks offended. 

"I knew you'd get all weird. "Look, I get it. And it's no biggie."

"No...biggie?"

"I mean," she smirks, because she well into the place where she's got a sense of humor about this. "Well, maybe that's not the best way to put it, considering...." she smirks again.

"You're not actually making a joke about..."

"I'm paying you a compliment. Oh, and I'm on the pill, so that's not--"

"I hadn't even, you are? I mean... good."

"Yeah. So, anyway, are you done having your freak out?"

"I’m not having... how are you so calm about this?"

"That's why you hired me, remember?" She steals a piece of his bacon. "I roll with the punches."

"I didn't--"

"No. Of course not. Once you figured out I wasn't trying to stop you, you chilled out. Some."

He looks down at his dry pancakes. "Wendy, I--" he presses his lips together. "I am so sorry."

"Not necessary. Seriously."

"I will completely understand if you no longer want to--"

She slams her fist down on the table, hard enough to make everything jump, make the people around them turn and look. But then they look away. That's how most people are. She says, voice low, "Don't you dare. No. No, don't even--"

"What I did--"

" It wasn't you."

"But it was." 

"No." She shakes her head. "First off, I was there. Second, Ida told me--"

"It wasn't a case of possession. It *was* me. It just dialed that part of me up to eleven and temporarily stripped me of--"

"Inhibitions, rational thought, a sense of right and wrong and an ability to assess the consequences of your actions?"

"Yes."

"Then it wasn't you. Because all that...that's what makes you you. That's what you are."

"Hmm."

"Why would someone even make a ray like that? What possible--"

"We were too busy to follow him, weren't we? And interactions like that tend to undermine morale."

"I guess I could see that freaking some people out. Especially if you've got a couple of straight guys."

"It might freak out anyone, being raped."

"Hey. Whoa." She sets down her coffee loudly, but this time no one turns. "Do *not* use that word. That's not what happened." He looks at her like .... she doesn't even know what that look is. "Seriously. That's not what happened. So just don't."

"But--"

"No." She holds up a hand. "I mean it."

He sighs, resigned. "Whatever you say, but Dubbie, I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"I need you to promise me that if something ever...you can't keep me in the dark about something like this. "

"Ida said--"

"Ida is a machine," he says. "She's a very smart machine, but she is not my partner and she is not human. She doesn't always understand, or care."

And then she thinks she recognizes the look. He looks... violated. He looks more violated than she's felt this whole time. And the truth is, even though she didn't really have the option to say no, she chose to say yes. Or, if not say it, at least think it. He didn't get that choice. 

"Was it embarrassment," he asks, "Or did you not trust me?"

"I trust you."

"Then why not tell me what happened?"

"I just..." she looks down at her plate of home fries. "Didn't want things to get weird. I didn't want you to feel bad about what happened."

"It's not your job to protect me, dang it. If this is going to work--"

"This?"

"You and me," he says, solemnly. "Us. If this is going to work, we have to trust each other. You have to trust me. I need to be able to trust that you trust me."

"I trust you."

"I understand how what happened might undermine that."

"No. It's not, it wasn't that. I just thought it would be easier this way. But I get it. I get it, okay? I promise," she says. Then she points a potato-laden fork at him. "I promise, *if* you promise me the same thing. Can you promise me full disclosure?"

He appears to give it some thought, but finally, he nods and extends his hand. "It's a deal."

They shake on it, then eat the rest of their meal in silence. As they're finishing up, she says, "Look, seriously, I am fine, you know? It wasn't even..."

"Wasn't what?"

"Aside from the concrete floor and the lack of kissing, it wasn't... Well, it wasn't what I'm used to, but it's not like it was entirely unpleasant."

He looks sick to his stomach. He looks disgusted.

She's not sure if he's disgusted at himself, or at her, or at the situation, but she still says sharply, "Okay, just *no*. You do not look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm some freak. Like there's something wrong with what I just said."

"That's not... I think you're a remarkable young lady."

She waits for him to elaborate, not on the compliment, but on what the [BLEEP] prompted that look, but he doesn't. And the truth is, she really just wants to put this behind her, so she says, "So you and me, we're cool, right?"

He looks at her for another minute, like he's giving that some thought too. Finally, he sits up straight. "We're cool," he says.

"Cool."

 

FIVE DAYS AFTER:

They catch the bad guy and Wendy stands back and watches, silently, as The Middleman beats the ever-loving crap out of him. Normally, she'd suggest he might want to ease off some, but this looks like something he needs to do. Also, Wendy doesn't want to think about what might have happened if it hadn't been her, if some other girl or guy had been on the receiving end. 

When the bad guy is incapacitated, unconscious and bloodied on the floor, her boss stands. He looks satisfied, and that's the end of that, she thinks.

 

FIVE MINUTES AFTER THAT:

They've left him to the authorities and they're almost back to the car when her boss stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah? What is--"

He kisses her. It's a very gentle kiss, but it is by no means chaste. 

She lets him kiss her, and a few seconds into it, she puts her hands on the front of his uniform, then on his clean-shaven face. There's no tongue involved, but she feels the kiss clear down to her toes. When he moans and pulls away, she asks a little breathlessly, "You mind telling me what the [BLEEP] that was for?" 

"I'm not entirely sure."

She believes him is the scary part. "Oh. Okay."

"That's not true."

She believes him, and she doesn't, because he looks more confused than she feels at this moment. "Okay, I guess."

"You and I, we can't become romantically involved."

"And you figured kissing me on the mouth was the best way to express that?"

He rubs at his forehead. "I...it's complicated."

She says, "It's not. I have a boyfriend. I have a very... satisfying boyfriend." And then she wonders why on earth she chose that adjective.

Particularly when it earns her that look. He says, "Is that so?"

"Yes it is. Are you planning on kissing me again, because you look like you're planning--"

"We *can't* get romantically involved," he says, like she's arguing with him about it, which she totally isn't.

"You already said that. Wait. Wait a second, you don't, do you want--"

"We can't even get sexually involved."

"What? Who says I'd even want to? You're..."

"I'm your boss."

"Yeah, and--"

"And I'm obviously not your type, judging by the doorknob you're dating."

"Hey."

"And it would throw one heck of a monkey wrench in our working relationship."

"Totally," she says. "So that's settled, right?"

"Right," he says.

 

WAY BEFORE:

Wendy's type, not surprisingly, is the sensitive artist. Wendy's type has always been some variation on the skinny, stylish boy who writes poetry, woos with painfully earnest acoustic guitar compositions and takes more feminist theory classes than she does. 

Some of them are kinky, more than a couple of them have a submissive streak, and it's not like there have been *that* many; Wendy is a serial monogamist. Wendy has had some casual sex, but it's not really her thing. She's more of a do-it-yourselfer when it comes to scratching an in-between-boyfriends itch. Wendy's type is not and has never been "jock" or "muscle bound" or, for that matter, "clean-cut, goodie-two-shoes ex-Navy SEAL". 

In fact, that's just about the furthest from her type as you could get. 

 

A LITTLE BEFORE:

"You told him he couldn't date me?" Lacey says.

"Yes."

"Why would you do that to me? I know why. You hate me. You don't want me to be happy, that's it. Or are you getting back at me for spilling paint on--"

"I'm not getting back at you for anything, Lacey. It's just, it would be too weird. He's my boss."

"He's not even your type."

"I know. It's not like I'm keeping him for myself."

"I mean, that's always been a good thing. You like what you like and I like--"

"Anything over six feet with a tight ass and--"

"He does have an amazing ass, doesn't he?" Lacey sighs. "Tell me you'll at least admit that."

Wendy isn't about to deny that he's got a great ass. A great body, too, if you go for that kind of thing.

Which Wendy totally doesn't. 

 

A DAY AND THREE-QUARTERS AFTER:

"Ida?" 

"Yeah, boss?"

"Would you mind explaining why I can't pull up a recording of the night before last?"

"Recording?"

"Yes. The Real Time Situation Recording Archive has been tampered with."

"Has it?"

"Ida."

"Yeah, boss?" She's intent on the forms she's stamping. Very focused. Too focused.

"What are you hiding from me?"

She looks up. "Nothing you need to see. Trust me and drop it, boss."

"You've got exactly ten seconds to get the missing footage up on this screen."

"I can't. It's been deleted and scrubbed."

"Why?" His stomach is twisting. His subconscious is putting two and two together. "And would you like to also explain to me why I'm sore all over, but there's not a single gosh darn scratch on me?"

"No. I would not."

"Ida?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Don't make me ask you again."

She sighs, heavily. Then, there is something approaching pity in her eyes. "Fine, come here." When he does, she says, "Your right wrist." She beams a databurst at the device that looks like a watch but is so much more. 

He feels every hair on his body stand on end, then the sensation of an appearance masker powering off. He loosens his tie first, strips his jacket, then his shirt. On his shoulder is a bite mark. He does the only sensible thing, which is to scan the bite mark and compare it to known dental records. The result - one Miss Wendy Watson - comes up immediately. "It wasn't a paralysis gun, was it?"

"No, boss. It wasn't." She clicks a few buttons and the schematic of the gun in question pops up on the screen.

He feels flushed, then cold, then dizzy. Then he sits abruptly and fights the urge to be sick. "[BLEEP]."

 

DIRECTLY AFTER

"You--" Lacey says, pointing. "You--bad, bad girl."

"Not now," Wendy says through gritted teeth.

"I *knew* it. You and Sexy Boss. I totally called it!"

Wendy heads up to her room, takes the stairs slowly. "Not *now* Lacey."

"Oh my God. I'm not even jealous, not really, I mean you could've called dibs, I'm just, just dying to know if--"

"[BLEEP BLEEP], Lacey, not [BLEEP] now. All right? For [BLEEP]'s sake, just," Wendy leans against the wall because her thighs are unsteady.

Lacey looks concerned.

"I'm fine."

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened."

Lacey doesn't look like she believes a word of it, but she backs off. "If you want to talk--"

"I know. I’m fine. I’m just - it's been a really long day."

"Okay. Just let me know--"

"Good night, Lacey." Wendy slams her door, eases down onto her bed and covers her face. She aches everywhere. Her upper arm has a perfectly formed, five-finger handprint. Her back is scraped up from the dirty warehouse floor and now it's sticky with antibiotic ointment.

She stares at the ceiling and waits for the Tylenol to kick in. She waits for the four shots she did as soon as she walked in the door to kick in. She closes her eyes and remembers the hardness of his muscles under her fingers and she feels herself start to cry. She chooses to let it happen.

 

ONE WEEK AFTER

The third time she catches him staring at her, she says, "Oh, for the love of [BLEEP], what? What is it? What the [BLEEP] are you--"

"Profanity is--"

"[BLEEP] you. They're words. They're just words. Expressive words. You're not my mother and you're not my [BLEEP] father, so unless you want to add 'not swearing' to my formal job description--"

"You don't have a formal job description.""

"I [BLEEP] know."

"This job requires flexibility and--"

"Oh, believe me," she says, turning to face him, "I sure as [BLEEP] know that."

He inhales and exhales sharply through his nose, then looks out the windshield.

'What?" she snaps.

"I wish that I knew exactly what you were so mad at me about."

"I'm not mad at you."

"You're mad at something."

"I'm not mad. [BLEEP]." She gestures at the warehouse they're watching. "When are they [BLEEP] getting here?"

He sighs, loudly, and gives her an admonishing look.

"[BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP] your [BLEEP BLEEP]."

"Do you feel better now?"

"[BLEEP] you."

"I wish," he says, fingers curling over the steering wheel, "I wish that you could share your troubles with me."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Maybe I could help," he says.

"How about you help by not looking at me every five seconds."

"Was I?"

"Yes."

"I'll stop."

"Because I'm not..."

He keeps his eyes pointed forward as he asks, "You're not what?"

She points at the front of the building they're watching. "Look." There are three non-ninja mutant turtles climbing very slowly down the side of the building.

He smiles at her. "Those are some sharp eyes you've got, Dubbie."

 

THREE HOURS LATER

Tonight there has been running, jumping, climbing, more running over rooftops, and finally, for Wendy, dangling over the edge of a rooftop, with only his strong grip on her wrist between her and a twelve story drop to the pavement.

"I've got you, Dubbie." Then, just before the ship explodes, he hauls her up and she lands on him, then she's rolled and she's under him and the sky above them blooms with bright peach light.

His arm covers the top of her head and his chest smothers her for a moment. She hears the pitter-patter of debris raining down on the roof all around them and when it finally stops, he gets up on his elbows and knees. "You all right, Dubbie?" he asks, looking down at her.

She coughs and pushes her hair off her face. "I forgot how [BLEEP] heavy you are." She realizes what she's said a moment before he gets it, watches his expression go hard. She pats his chest and says, "I mean, I’m fine. Thanks for playing human shield." She pats his chest again and smiles up at him, waits for him to smile back. 

But he doesn't. Instead, his head starts dropping toward hers and she thinks he's going to kiss her, then realizes she isn't immediately against the idea. But his forehead just bonks heavily against hers, and then he goes limp. 

"Boss? Boss, wake up." She manages to slide out from under him, roll him to his back, then she sees it, a piece of debris sticking out of his side and around it a large, dark spot is spreading. "Oh [BLEEP]. Oh [BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP]."

She uses the sharp little knife from her boot to cut open his jacket and T-shirt around his injury, then she's one long string of bleeps as she pulls out the debris and watches the blood flow faster. Wendy balls up the scraps of his T-shirt and presses hard as she calls Ida on the watch communicator. She asks if she should call the paramedics, but Ida says she'll get there faster, says she's got it covered, says to hold on and apply pressure. She does, and keeps checking his breathing, his pulse as she waits for Ida to show, keeps an eye on his alarmingly pale face, keeps clutching the increasingly-red shirt to his side.. "You are not allowed to die on me, you got that? Not allowed." She feels his hand on her hip and says, "Hey, you're awake, that's good, right?"

But then, the [BLEEP] starts spouting off codes - override codes for Ida, for the safe, for rooms she's never seen.

"Shut up, you big idiot. Ida'll be here any second."

"Dubbie, listen. I need to tell you--"

"No," she says. Then, she doesn't think it, just does it, just kisses him, fiercely. 

When she sits up, he's got his brows drawn together. "That was really swell. But I still need to tell you--"

"For the last time, shut up! You're *not* dying!"

"--that I'm more fond of you than I should be." 

Her hands are warm with his blood now. "What's that even mean?"

"Wait. Did you just kiss me?"

"No. Yes. [BLEEP]. If you stop bleeding, I'll do it again. You know what, if you just stop [BLEEP] bleeding, I'll even suck your [BLEEP], okay? [BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP], where the [BLEEP] is that stupid [BLEEP]?"

"You have one filthy mouth, young lady."

"I'll prove it to you, if you just, no, come on, come on, come on! Open your [BLEEP] eyes."

He passes out again, and by the time Ida gets there, Wendy is maybe crying a little. Ida does some heat ray cauterizing thing and she lifts him like a toddler, easily and carefully. Ida drives, makes frighteningly good time, dodging traffic like Speed Racer, like a machine as Wendy holds his head on her lap and strokes his pale cheek. "He's going to be okay, right?" 

"He's a tough cookie," Ida says. "Don't you worry."

 SIX HOURS LATER

Wendy is asleep, dozing at his bedside, holding his hand. She feels a squeeze and lifts her head. His eyes are open and though he's still pale, he's smiling just a little. Okay, more than a little. More like Ida's got him doped to the gills. She smiles back.

"You're hurt," he says, turning her hand over, looking at the bandage on her inner arm.

"I'm O positive. You're B positive."

"Well, gosh, if anyone can be positive, I can be positive." His smile gets more goofy. "Hey, Dubbie, guess what."

"What?"

"I stopped bleeding."

"Congratulations."

"But I won't hold you to your promise."

"My what? Oh, *that* you remember. Classy."

"I am a very classy guy. Classic, even, one might say."

"One might also say 'high'."

"One might. I am." He squeezes her hand and says solemnly, "Thank you for saving my life."

"No problem."

"Hey. I stopped bleeding."

"Yeah, the day you can use your grown-up words for it, maybe I'll consider."

"Aiza ta'mili hagat wiskha ma'aya? Bit tifi wela bit tibla'ee?"

"And what is that?"

"Arabic."

"For?"

"Some grown-up words." He manages to look both proud of himself and a little ashamed of himself at the same time. Then, he rubs his thumb against her palm and looks her in the eye, drops his voice into that movie announcer pitch and says, with a pretty much perfect accent. "Suce moi et fais moi jouir."

She speaks French, but she's not going to let him know that until tomorrow, and maybe see if she can make him blush. 

"I know how to say that in six languages."

"You really are a sailor." She lets him continue to rub her palm because he's high. "It only counts if you're sober, you know."

"You kissed me, you know."

"You saved my life. Twice. In about thirty seconds. Go back to sleep." She strokes his forehead.

He turns his face into the touch. He says, "That's because I'm fond of you."

"Nah. You'd save anyone. I think you're kind of easy like that. Besides. Good help is hard to find."

"No, that's not right. I'm not fond of you." His voice is slurring. "I just said that, because I'm not s'pose to say something I can say in twelve languages besides English."

"Hush, now, drunky."

"Twelve *earth* languages, I'll have you know. That doesn't even count--"

"Shh." She puts a finger on his lips.

His lips move against her touch as she says, "Ta gra agam ort. Volim te. Doset daram. Ana behibek."

"Hey now, potty mouth. You're talking to a lady here, remember?"

"That's four. Ngo oiy ney a. Saya cinta padamu. Je t'aime is seven." He gets through ten of them before his head rolls to the side and he starts snoring. 

"Show off," she whispers. She puts her ear to his chest and listens to his slow, steady heartbeat for a few minutes.

When Ida comes in, Wendy lifts her head and asks, "Is his heart rate supposed to be that low?"

"His normal resting heart rate is forty-seven."

"Oh. Of course it is."

"He'll be fine," Ida says. "You did good today, kiddo."

Wendy stands and sways on her feet, dizzy all of a sudden. Ida takes her by the arm and puts her in the bed beside his. "Blood loss is a bitch, or so I've heard. I'm not sending you home yet."

"I'm fine."

"Humans," Ida says, pulling a blanket over her.

 

SEVERAL HOURS AFTER THAT

Wendy wakes up slowly to murmurs and doesn't open her eyes at first. Murmurs she recognizes, more like arguing. And...she's in her own bed. Male voices. Ben's voice and her boss's. Low, angry tones that rise and fall. She lifts her head from her pillow, then sits up. She's in her pajamas. 

"--kind of a job where she's missing for two days and then you think you can just show up--"

"She wasn't missing," comes her boss's smooth voice. "She was ignoring your calls." 

"You show up carrying her and she's [BLEEP] covered in blood."

Wendy looks at the pile of her uniform, stained dark brown, in the corner of her room. 

Ben's voice is wobbly and shrill, "I want you to stay away from her."

"That's not your choice to make," he says. Then he calls, "Tell her to give me a ring when she wakes up."

Lacey - who Wendy hadn't realized was in the room - calls down, "Okay."

Wendy swings to face her.

"We're leaving now," her boss says, in his menacing voice.

"No. You're leaving." Then a scuffle, then both voices out the door, then shut.

Lacey's looking at Wendy evenly. 

"What time is it?" Wendy asks.

"Where have you been?" Lacey asks.

"Working."

"That's a lot of blood," she says, pointing at the uniform. 

"It's not mine."

"I know. I put you in your pajamas."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"What are you into? What's going on?"

"What did he tell you?"

"He told me [BLEEP], Wendy. I'm seriously scared for you. Whose blood were you covered in? It's real blood."

"It's his."

Lacey sits on Wendy's bed, pushes her pajama sleeve up, looks at the gauze on her inner arm. "Ben's been here all day, waiting for you to show up, you know. He's been worried sick, then you two show up."

"He carried me? Freaking idiot. He shouldn't be out of bed."

"You're scaring me, Wendy. That?" she gestures at the blood-soaked uniform, "Is scary. And it's freaking Ben out."

"I'm sorry."

"But you're not quitting, are you?"

"This is something I've got to do, Lacey. You of all people should understand."

"I commit misdemeanors. You come home looking like Carrie."

Wendy gives her a look.

"With *real* blood."

"This is something I've got to do."

"Is it about him? Because--"

"It's not. It's bigger than that. We're doing something important."

"It's about him a little, though, isn't it?"

"Not like that. He needs me."

Lacey sits up. "I'm not your mother--"

"If you were my mother, you'd be replacing my Ortho-Tri-Cyclen with Pez."

"You're a big girl, Wendy."

Wendy doesn't feel big. She feels tired and woozy and more than a little fragile. 

"Your boss has some serious self control, by the way."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Wendy puts her feet on the floor. She needs a shower.

"I mean that after he put you in bed, Ben punched him in the face."

"Get *out*."

"And all your boss did was - God this was hot - he said, 'You get exactly one of those.'"

 

SIX HOURS AFTER THAT

It's something she's been thinking about for a while, since before the incident, since before this one, even. She's got a lot of reasons, and most of them aren't her boss. "Ben? I think we need to take a break."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"What? You're not--"

"We can talk about it in a few days. Please don't call me." After she hangs up she expects to feel bad. All she feels is a dizzying sense relief. 

 

AN HOUR AFTER THAT

The stupid, skinny little good-for-nothing emo punk gave him a shiner. And his side hurts. And he remembers every single stupid thing he said to Wendy when he was loopy on painkillers. And as he looks in the bathroom mirror at his black eye, at the result of a day and a half without shaving he has to concede that he is one sad-looking son of a gun. He shakes his head. 

"Hey boss," Ida says from the doorway. "When you're done with the pity party, you've got a visitor."

"Tell them I--"

"He's not feeling sorry for himself," Wendy says from behind Ida. "He's just shaving. Isn't that right?"

"Humans," Ida says, before she leaves them alone.

"Aren't you?" Wendy says, brushing past and dropping the toilet lid and sitting on it.

"How are you doing, Dubbie?"

"I think I'm going to start calling you Joe."

He takes the shaving cream from the medicine cabinet, then the razor, then he runs the hot water. "Why's that?"

"Because you need a name."

"I have a name."

"A name I know."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm not the kind of girl who sleeps with guys whose name she doesn't know."

"I never for one moment thought you were."

"So, Joe it is."

"You could ask me my name."

"You'd have told me by now if you were going to."

"Joe works."

"Like G.I. Joe."

"That's Army."

"Scuba Steve works. You were a SEAL, after all."

"Joe is fine."

"So, Joe."

"So, Dubbie. Your boyfriend has a mean sucker punch."

"Probably broke his hand."

"One can only hope."

"And he's not my boyfriend."

"No?" He holds a hot washcloth to his face. 

"I broke up with him." When he gives her a prompting look, she adds, "I needed some space."

He spreads the mentholated shaving foam over his cheeks, jaw, neck.

"How about you? How are you doing, Joe?"

"Just fine, thank you for asking."

She pokes him in the side bandage.

"[BLEEP]," he says. "Now that was just mean."

"So you *can* curse sober."

He glares at her, then starts shaving.

"I used to watch my father shave."

He lifts a razor and takes another pass at his cheek, another, rinses and says, "I remind you of your father."

"On a scale of one to creepy, just this side of creepy. You don't look anything like him though."

"I'm sure he's a handsome man, if he had a daughter like you."

She seems uncomfortable with the compliment. "I'm fond of you too, you know."

"I know." After a couple more passes, he finishes his neck and moves to the other cheek.

"You could have died," she says.

"I know."

"And you're okay with that?"

He shrugs. "One day this job will kill me. That's how this works."

"Wait, and you're fine with that."

He rinses the razor off. "I've made peace with it, if that's what you're asking."

"You've made *peace* with that?"

"Yes." Carefully, he starts to do his chin.

"And what about me?"

"What about you?"

"Have you made peace with the fact that I'm going to die on this job one day?"

"No. Because I won't let that happen. And because you're not the Middleman."

"And who is the next Middleman?"

"That's not something we have to worry about for a while."

She pokes him - hard - in his injured side.

"Hey!"

"You almost died."

"But I didn't." When she tries poking him again, he catches her hand and twists it under, applies just enough pressure to cause mild pain. He says, "Now you stop that."

"What happens if you die? What happens to *me* if you die?"

"You'll have a choice."

"Oh yeah? What kind of choice? [BLEEP] out and let the world fall into chaos?"

"Ida would find another suitable candidate. No one is going to force you to do anything you don’t--" He bites his tongue and drops her hand. "You would be free to mourn me or not, as you see fit, and go on with your life."

"Free to mourn you or not as I--" she jabs his side again.

He grabs both her hands and squeezes until she winces. "Do not. Do that. Again."

She throws her shoulders back, her chin up, and says, "Or *what*?"

"I don't know," he says, backing her into the door. "But you don't want to find out."

"Don't tell me what I [BLEEP] want."

"What *do* you want, Dubbie?"

"I want you to stop calling me [BLEEP] Dubbie."

He bends down until he's nose to nose with her, smells her perfume. Smells her toothpaste. And suddenly, he's aware that her blood is flowing through his veins right now. He locks eyes with her and says, "Dubbie."

Then, she does what he expects, sort of. She lays a hand on his wound. She's brushing her thumb over his t-shirt, over the bulge of bandage and he shivers. Breathes into her face, open-mouthed. 

"You must get so lonely," she says.

"What makes you say that?"

Her hand moves to the edge of his T-shirt, then up and under, over the bandage. "Knowing you."

"You don't know me," he says, hearing roughness in his own voice.

"I don't even know your name." Her cool fingertips drift from the bandage to his stomach.

"We can't." 

"Why not?"

"We can't." Her mouth is way too close to his for safety, so he stands up straight but doesn't step back.

"We did."

He closes his eyes and knocks his forehead against the door above her. "I can't."

"I know you can."

 

THE NEXT INSTANT

He knocks his head on the door above her, again.

She presses her hand to his hard stomach, smooth, hot skin beneath her fingers, then she says, "Okay."

"Hmm?"

She turns her hand over, brushes her knuckles over his skin. "Okay. If you don't want to--"

"It's not that I don't want you."

"Or if you're scared." Her hand starts drifting up.

"Not scared."

She traces the bottom curve of one of his pecs, feels it twitch. "Or if you've got some chi-saving, self-denial, monk thing going on."

"You think that I'm a monk?"

"You don't cuss. You don't drink. You don't smoke."

"I am not a monk," he says. And then he presses his lips to hers in a sweet, soft, slow kiss that curls Wendy's fingers against his chest. She wants just a little closer to him and she rubs her palms up his stomach and his chest. She feels it when he shudders.

He kisses her again, a little less sweetly, a little more deeply and she tries to peel his T-shirt up. She does fine at first, but when he tries lifting his arms, he gets as far as shoulder height then hisses in pain. That snaps him out of whatever let him kiss her and he steps back. He holds up his hands. "There are rules. There are rules for a very good reason."

"[BLEEP] the rules. You," she pokes his chest, "*You* can't just keep kissing me and *saying* things--"

"I was high."

"Just now? Just ten seconds ago, were you high? Are you high?"

"No. I'm sorry. But," He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, but I can't. This job, this life, it will always come first. You deserve better than that. Better than me."

"Oh [BLEEP] that. You *are* scared."

"Yes!" He lowers his voice. "Yes I am, all right? Fine. I'm afraid of losing you. I want you by my side and if we do this--" then he squeezes his eyes shut and touches his lips. 

And it's so heartbreaking and hot at the same time, she has to put a hand on his shoulder. 

Eyes still shut, he says, "If we do this and it doesn't work, and it probably won't, most things don't - if it ends badly and you leave me, I'm going to be awfully sad. And I don't want to be sad. I don't want you to leave me. That's the truth. Please tell me you understand."

And, because the truth is, she's starting to know this man, she does. She wishes she didn't, but she does. She puts her arms around his neck and feels him tense up, but she just hugs him. "Okay," she says softly. "Okay, I get it."

He puts his arms around her and holds her close. "You do?"

She nods and lays her cheek against his shoulder. "You're right," she lies.

He exhales heavily and squeezes her tighter. "Thank you. Thank you."

 

DURING:

For the first thirty seconds or so, she does try to fight him off. "What are you, stop that, what do you think you're, what the [BLEEP]." He doesn't answer her. And the noise he makes sounds more animal than human. She manages to knee him hard in the crotch and scramble away, make it half-way across the warehouse as she tries to get her gun from its holster, hands stupid with adrenaline. She aims it at him and shouts, "Stay the [BLEEP] back." 

But it's like he doesn't even see the gun. Obviously he does, because he kicks it out of her hand so fast, then he's got her around the waist and he's carrying her to a broken-down conveyor belt. 

"You don't want to do this," she shouts, hearing it echo in the cavernous warehouse. "I know you don't want to do this." As she struggles against his grip, she knows what's happening. Not exactly, but she can put two and two together, she knows this isn't him. She knows this is whatever he just got shot with and as he rips her pants open, gets them down to her knees and bends her over, she makes a decision. She makes a choice about what's about to happen.

He does hurt her, the first time. Not on purpose, she's pretty sure, but he's in a hurry, and he's big and she's nowhere near ready. The first time is over fast. Like, no more than ten brutal strokes kind of fast.

When he finishes, she thinks to herself, thank God. She thinks, *the spell is broken* and it could have been much worse, and wow, things are about to get *so extremely awkward*, and he didn't use a condom, but if anyone is squeaky clean, it's probably him and just thank God it's over. As he pulls out, she hisses, then she stands up and turns around slowly. She isn't quite ready to meet his eyes; before she can do that, she just needs a second and some space. She starts to pull her pants up from her knees, so she can take a step.

But then he *grunts* and grabs her arm, yanks her back. He shoves her back and the rusted-out side of the old conveyor belt scrapes her ass. 

"What are you doing?" she asks, voice low and calm.

But he doesn't answer her. He kneels again and when she finally looks at him, finally tries looking him in the eye, she finds him watching her like a hawk (more like a dog with a bone, really) and unlacing his boots. It's him, but there's this strange blankness in his eyes. And for a couple seconds, as they lock gazes, his busy hands slow. Then they stop. 

And in those few seconds, she's pretty sure it's *him* looking at her because of the horror and anger and determination that spreads across his face. But then his head jerks *hard* to the left, again, and she can see his jaw working. Then, his head lifts slowly and there's that blankness again.

She holds her hands up. "Okay. It's okay, it's okay, Boss." 

He blinks at her like she's speaking a foreign language, then, eyes still fixed on her, he tilts his head and that's the part that's creepy as fuck. He rocks a couple times, then he rises to his feet and kicks off his boots. Then the trousers and old-fashioned looking boxers get kicked away and he's practically clawing at his neck tie, his shirt.

She thinks that when he gets closer, she could try to hurt him, poke him in the eye or something, but she's seen him single-handedly take on eight men his size at once and leave them all bloody and unconscious. She doesn't want to fight him. She just wants to get through this. So, as she watches him undress, she says, like she's talking to a nervous dog, "It's okay. It's okay, right, you're not back yet, are you, whatever the [BLEEP] your name is and why haven't you ever told me your name, huh?"

He just keeps stripping until he's naked except for his socks and his watch and thin, tarnished chain around his neck that she has never seen. When she reaches for her pants again, he grabs her shoulders and gives her a shake. Then he grabs the front of her shirt, rips it open, pushes it down her shoulders, roughly. Shoves her bra to her waist. He covers her breasts with his hands and, fingers spread, he rubs his palms over them. 

She tries to sound soothing, "I'm not going anywhere. Just, I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm staying right here, and I'm just--"

He tries pushing her legs apart, but her pants are around her ankles, stopping him and he all but growls in frustration. 

"Hold on, just let me, I've got it," she says.

He lets go of her long enough to let her get her shoes off, get her trousers off. Then, he drops to his knees and he doesn't exactly go down on her, but he *licks* between her legs. He does it just once, but deep and slow like he's trying to get at the taste. He's already left her messy, and when he lifts his head, his chin is wet and she's a little shocked that she's not more disgusted. But she doesn't have time to process that, because then he's pulling her to the ground and trying to roll her to her stomach.

Before he does, she manages to get a leg around his hip and pulls him closer, reaches down and catches *that*, it's not exactly hard to find. She pulls him even closer, because the sooner they get going, the sooner they get through this. He seems to get that she's helping, because he takes his hands off her, braces them and his elbows on the floor on either side of her shoulders, rubs his face against the side of hers and starts to thrust.

The second and third times last a lot longer and they sort of blur together, because he doesn't pull out or change position between them, and he doesn't really go soft, either. By the end of the third, though, he's starting to slow down. By the fourth time, she's exhausted and raw and a little numb, but by then his movements have lost their frantic edge, and he's mostly just rocking against her, cheek against hers. 

And it's then that all these different emotions, all these different kinds of guilt and anger and pain and the sheer volume of impossibility that has recently filled her life, the violence and the power and the evil and horror and beauty and absurdity of it all - they all coalesce and cancel each other out, or maybe they just break her for a moment - the weight of it all just folds in on itself and transforms into this numb sort of bliss. 

And all of it with this incredible and incredibly [BLEEP] up and incredibly lovely man by her side. She wraps her arms and legs around him and holds on and kisses his neck and feels him shudder on top of her - not that one, not yet. And she tries very hard not to think about how he's going to look at her when this wears off. How this is probably going to break them. She tries very hard to focus on his skin, his muscle and bone, and not on whether what they have will survive this. 

Because it's only in these final moments that it really truly hits her - for the first time since impossibility walked into her life, him hot on its heels - that she realizes how much she loves it. How much she needs it. Not him, but this new life he's led her into. This bright, wild, surreal life. 

He's at the center of it, but it is so much bigger than him. And it's bigger than her. And for the first time, the thought of giving it up, going back, having it taken away from her really hits her. She knows this thing can't go on forever, but the reality that it will come to an end - that this thing she's doing, the most amazing thing she's ever done, probably the most amazing thing anyone has ever done will one day come to an end - *really* hits home for her. 

And that scares her more than anything. The thought of stopping terrifies her. She holds him tighter and feels him get closer and makes encouraging noises. She strokes his sweaty back and works up against him the best she can; she's tired, she's exhausted, she's banged up and bruised, but she's worked harder through worse with him. 

He shudders and moans again, it's that one and it's then, at the end of it, as his whole body goes rigid that, surprising the [BLEEP] out of herself, she comes, biting his shoulder.

 

ABOUT TWO MONTHS LATER

"Tell me something, Dubbie."

"Yeah, Joe?"

She's taken to calling him this, and he's taken enough with her that he doesn't much mind. But these last few weeks, he hasn't been able to shake the feeling that something's got her down. "Is there something bothering you?"

She looks up from the half-melted ice cream bar she's been working on for the last ten minutes. Earlier, they successfully vanquished a flock of hyper-intelligent, flying penguins that were bent on committing pigeon genocide. The pigeons, being ordinary pigeons, weren't grateful, but that was okay. The satisfaction of a job well done was reward enough.

They finished a little after dusk and Wendy insisted that the two of them deserved *some* reward, and so ice cream on a park bench in front of a beautifully lit park fountain it was. He's long since finished his cup of soft serve vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and he's been doing his best not to watch her lazy tongue as it catches the pink and white drips on her fingers. 

"I'm fine," she says. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?"

She gives him a look usually reserved for his taste in music or some of his more creative profanity substitutions. "Oh yeah. *That*, I'm sure of."

"Now you've piqued my interest."

"Life's rough."

"Come on, you can tell me anything."

She shakes her head. "You don't want to know, trust me."

"Lady troubles?"

"Okay, *you*, my mom, that Maenad a few weeks ago. *Why* does everyone think I'm a lesbian? Seriously."

"I was referring to your menses."

"Okay. Wow. First, you are never allowed to say that word again."

"What? Menses?"

"Ew! Oh my God, stop!"

He smirks. She doesn't know he has two sisters. Had. No one does. He watches her flail her ice cream bar around a little more, dripping on her knee, and breaks into a grin. "It's just a word, Dubbie. Just an expressive word."

"I hate you sometimes. And no. None of your business, but no."

"Then what? Come on, lately you've been so darn--"

"So darn what?"

"Edgy?" he tries, tentatively.

"I'm telling you, you don't want to know."

"And I’m telling you I do. You can tell me anything."

"Fine. You know what? Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"I wouldn't dare."

"The reason I'm a little 'edgy' is that I haven't gotten laid since I broke up with Ben. There. Are you happy?"

"I, um, oh."

"If you want to get technical about it, I haven't been laid since," she gestures at him.

"Since what?"

She takes a bite of her disintegrating ice cream bar, then pushes the rest off the stick and into her mouth. She swallows, waves her hands, "Oh, [BLEEP], brain freeze." She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, then says, looking at the ground, "Since you did me six ways from Sunday on that warehouse floor."

He inhales funny and manages to choke on his tongue and ends up having a coughing jag.

"What? I warned you."

"You did indeed."

"This job really is hell on the social life. How do you do it?"

"Do...what?"

"Do you date and just not talk about it? Do you pick up chicks at the V.F.W.? Do you go out in normal person drag?"

"What do you mean, normal person drag?"

"Seriously, though, I mean, you've got needs."

"Yes," he says. "Of course I have needs."

"And you don't strike me as the type to use professionals."

"How, exactly, did we get on the topic of my love life?"

She drops her voice an octave or so, "'You can tell me anything, Dubbie.'"

"Right. Of course." He shakes his head, then offers her a handkerchief from his back pocket, because licking her fingers is unsanitary, not because it's more distracting than it should be. "And no, while I respect purveyors of paid companionship--"

"That is the nicest way of saying whore I think I've ever heard."

"--I don't find the need to use their services."

She gives him a once over. "Yeah, I’m sure you do okay."

He shrugs. Then, he's not sure what devilish, self-destructive impulse gets into him, but the phrase has been stuck in his head since she said it, and he just comes out with, "Six ways from Sunday?"

She looks more than a little surprised. "Don't tell me you're fishing for compliments."

"What? I--no!"

Then she smirks and it becomes obvious that she's going to have way too much fun with this. "What, you don't want details?" 

"I really don't." It's not that it makes him feel bad, more that they've managed just fine going this long without talking about it in detail. Not talking has worked and he doesn't want it to stop working. "Just forget I said anything."

"More like four ways from Sunday. Is that typical for you? Or--"

"Really, really don't want--"

"Only two positions, though."

"Please stop."

"Care to make a guess?"

"Menses," he says, loud enough that the middle aged couple sitting by the edge of the fountain looks at them for a moment.

She bursts out laughing and when she catches her breath, she says, "What? Is that, like, your safe word?"

Then *he's* laughing and she starts laughing again and he hasn't felt this good in ages. When he can speak, he says, "No, *menses* is certainly not my safe word."

"Like you *have* a safe word."

"Everyone should have a safe word, Dubbie," he tells her, sincerely. "Safe, sane and consensual is the only way to play." When her eyes go wide, it's his turn to smirk. 

"So, it's no to hookers, yes to BDSM, I'm going to have to guess no to dirty talk."

He neither confirms nor denies. He believes there's a time and a place for all words, but he's not about to encourage her potty mouth. 

"Yes to bondage, obviously."

"Are you quite done?"

"Probably not. Hey, if I let you date Lacey, can you hook me up with one of your ex-Navy SEAL buddies?"

"Good gravy, woman."

"Relax, I'm kidding." She takes a deep breath and stretches her arms over her head, arches her back and yawns. "I'm just kidding you. We were up with the birds, literally, and I’m just punchy."

As she rubs her eyes and yawns again, he looks at her fondly. Maybe a little too fondly. Because when she looks up at him, she sits up straight and points. "Okay, you want the truth?"

"Always."

"That, that right there is why I'm edgy." She points at his face.

"What?"

"That look."

"That one. That one right there where you look like you're going to kiss me."

"What on God's green earth are you talking about? I do no such thing."

"Yeah you do."

"I do not."

"Do too."

"Do not. Where is this coming from?"

"From you looking like you want to kiss me. Which is somehow so much more disturbing than if you were looking at me like you wanted to [BLEEP] me. Because that's just something guys do, sometimes."

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words are coming to him.

"Don't you dare say menses."

"I do not," is all he can say.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

"That's none of your business."

She slides her glasses from her pocket and puts them on. "Because here's the thing, Joe."

"My name's not Joe."

"Here's the thing, *Steve*. I'm fine with keeping things professional. You're cute enough, but I'm capable of resisting."

"Cute enough?"

"More than cute enough and I know you know it, so shut up and let me finish. And you've obviously got the whole self-control thing down to a science. Or maybe a fetish. My point is, it's not not doing anything that's a problem."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is when you keep looking at me like you want to kiss me."

"I think you're projecting."

"You think I want to kiss you? Please."

"Do you?"

"None of your business," she says. "But if you're not going to do anything about it, you need to stop looking at me like that."

He narrows his eyes at her. "Are you teasing me?"

"Maybe."

He frowns. "Menses."

She covers his mouth and laughs and then her eyes get a little darker and a little wider, and that look right there, he wonders if that's the dangerous look she was talking about. She slides her hand from his mouth slowly, fingers dragging over his lips and he kisses the tip of the middle one, gives it a slow, wet, soft kiss, touches his tongue to it, tastes sweetness, like the ice cream she was just eating. 

Her mouth must taste just like that, he thinks.

Without warning, she leans in for a kiss, plants one square on his lips and he opens his mouth to her, lets her strawberries and cream flavored tongue in his mouth and sucks it and cups the back of her head. Her tongue and his get to know each other, as do their lips, and he touches her cheek, traces the frame of her glasses back to her ear, traces the rim of that, and her gasp is hot and sweet in his mouth. They sit back at the same time, but it takes him a couple seconds to stop touching her ear.

"Gosh," she says.

He chuckles. "I think we've arrived at the solution. If I kiss you more, I'll spend less time looking at you like I want to kiss you."

She looks suspicious. "I'm not sure how I feel about this solution of yours."

"Keep me updated."

"Will do, boss." Then she stands and rubs her hands together. "Ready to go? You can drop me off on your way back to the batcave."

 

THREE WEEKS LATER

He has kissed her eleven more times. He always waits until after they complete their mission. He always wants until they're alone and beyond that, there's no rhyme or reason. Slow and lingering up against the side of the car or a quick peck in an elevator. Tonight he waits until they're parked outside her building and she's opened the car door, then he grabs her hand and kisses it.

When his warm, soft lips linger on her knuckles, it *does* something to her stomach and she pulls the door back shut. Then, she climbs onto his lap.

"Hello, there," he says.

"I want to let you know that I've formed an opinion about this intermittent kissing solution of yours."

"Oh?"

"Yes." She loosens his tie and feels his hands come to rest on her waist. "I don't think it's helping."

"No?"

She unbuttons his top button, then the next. "I think you need to come to terms with the reality of the situation at hand and take the necessary steps."

"Mm-hmm?"

"This is not," she says, kissing his neck, tasting aftershave, "a relapsing remitting condition."

"No?" His hand slides up her back, up under her hair.

"More," she kisses his cheek, "Chronic."

"Have you got a course of treatment you'd like to propose."

"What I've got is needs."

"Is that so?" He untucks her shirt from her pants, a little at a time.

"His second base so much to ask?"

He gets her shirt all the way untucked, undoes the bottom button, then the next up, puts his big warm palm on her stomach. His thumb traces low across it, skimming into her waistband and around her side. "Exhibitionism isn't on my list of kinks."

"Yeah," she says, "I kind of figured you liked to watch." She keeps undoing her buttons until just her collar is buttoned. Then, she throws her tie over her shoulder and pulls open her shirt.

"Sweet Merry Christmas," he says. He fumbles with the armrest, clicks something that makes all the windows go dark. Totally pitch black dark.

She reaches overhead and clicks on the light.

"Now about these needs, would you care to elaborate?" He loosens her tie as she continues to unbutton his shirt.

"I seem to remember you saying something about tying me to the car."

"One thing at a time, Dubbie. One thing at a time."

 

ONE HOUR AND FORTY EIGHT MINUTES LATER

"That," she says, resting her forehead against his and trying to catch her breath, "That was more like third base. Third and a half, maybe."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"I should, um, get going. I should -- mm. Mm-hmm. That's..."

 

TWENTY TWO MINUTES LATER

"[BLEEP]," he says.

She says, "Let's save something for next time."

"Seriously, though, [BLEEP]."

"I'm just going to take that as a compliment."

"I'd say."

She grins. "I should go. Do you have any idea where my bra went?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"Fine. Just give it back when you're done with it."

"I don't know if I like what you're implying."

"No?" She pulls his tie from his collar, takes a sniff, then slings it around her neck. "That's too bad." She tries rebuttoning her shirt, but he won't stop kissing her breasts. "Excuse me, I need to take my toys and go home now."

"Mm-hmm."

 

THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER

She finally exits the car.

"You want me to walk you to your door?" he calls.

"You just keep an eye out for a black, 32B, Victoria's Secret Racerback bra."

"You have my word."

"Mm-hmm." She leans in the passenger side window and kisses him goodbye.

 

EIGHT MINUTES LATER

She heads upstairs.

 

ONE MINUTE LATER

"Hey Wendy Watson."

"Yeah Noser?"

"I think I lost something."

"That lovin' feeling?"

"You know where it is?"

"Gone, gone, gone?"

"Nah, I think I spotted it." He gives her a knowing smile and nods, "Right on."

She smiles back and says, "Whoa-oh-oh," as she pushes open her door.

Lacey glances up from gluing googly eyes on what looks like a couple hundred hot dogs. The whole place smells like meat product. With a very amused smirk, Lacey says, "Slut."

"Sausage molesting tramp."

"You little Sexy-Boss-doing slut."

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, maybe the fact that you've got a hickey, no bra, two identical black ties and his car has been parked downstairs for, like three hours." 

"I'm not the one filling our kitchen with phallic symbols."

"He must've worn you out, because that was *weak*."

Wendy just grins.

 

FIFTEEN HOURS LATER

He flops to his back beside her, panting heavily, basking in the endorphins and a general sense that all is right with the world. After he can see straight, he rolls to his side and lifts his head to look at her.

"So, uh-" she says, sounding just as out of breath. "That four times thing," she takes a couple more deep breaths, her chest flushed, rising and falling and glistening with sweat. "Not a fluke, huh?"

"I would like to take a moment to compliment you on your flexibility." 

"Five years of gymnastics. You're not so shabby yourself."

"Six years of Sensei Ping."

"I thought I saw some chemistry between you two."

"He's not my type."

"What kind of men *do* you go for?"

He kisses her neck, "The dark-haired, foul-mouthed, one-hundred-pound, menses-having, artistic type."

She smacks the back of his head. "[BLEEP]. Just for that--"

He kisses her quiet.

 

THREE AND A HALF YEARS LATER

He gets killed.

 

FOUR DAYS LATER

She travels to the underworld to get him back.

 

TIME HAS NO MEANING IN THE UNDERWORLD

Without hesitation, she takes the offer to trade the soul of her first born child for his life. "Sure," she says. "Just show me where to sign. You got a pen?"

 

TWO WEEKS AFTER THEY RETURN

She gets her tubes tied.

 

A DAY BEFORE THAT

She tells him how she brought him back from the dead. "I promised you full disclosure," she says. It's very dark in their bedroom and she waits as long as she can for his response. "Say something," she says.

"I love you."

"I know," she says. "Say something about what I just told you."

"Are you sure? Maybe we could figure out--"

"I've made peace with it," she says.

"I could get a vasectomy."

When she stops cracking up, she says, "That's sweet."

He turns on a lamp and looks at her like she's insane. "Sweet?"

"And kind of romantic, in a perverse way. But one of these days, you're going to meet a nice girl and want kids."

"I don't want a nice girl," he says, suddenly sounding as serious as a heart attack. "Wendy?"

"What? What's *that* look?"

"Close your eyes."

"Okay."

"Keep them closed."

She covers her eyes for good measure, feels him get off the bed. Hears a drawer rattling, then he says, "I am so grateful. I am such an incredibly lucky man."

"Why's that?"

"So lucky you didn't have to find this while you were cleaning out my belongings."

"I *knew* you had porn."

"Hush now, and keep your eyes closed." He takes her hand and coaxes her up, moves her legs till she's sitting up. Then, from lower down, comes his voice. "Open your eyes."

He's down on one knee. And he's holding up one heck of a ring. "Wendy Watson, will you do me the profound honor of becoming my wife?"

"[BLEEP] yes, I will." After he slides the ring on her finger, she tackles him to the floor and kisses him senseless.

 

A COUPLE HOURS LATER

"I guess this means you have to tell me your name."

"Why's that?"

"Because Mrs. Middleman just isn't going to cut it with my mom."

 

EVER AFTER

They lived happily. 

###

**Author's Note:**

> According to the internets, the Arabic he spoke means "Do you want to do dirty things with me? Do you spit or swallow?" and the French was, "Suck me and make me come".


End file.
